


Along the Way

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull takes a job escorting Maxwell Trevelyan to the Divine's Conclave in Ferelden.</p>
<p>This is a loose AU of "<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/269530">The Tevinter Candidate</a>" though it's not necessary to read that before this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along the Way

**Author's Note:**

> As always thanks to my lovely Vee for the title and laughing at Maxwell's ineptitude.

Lord Laird Trevelyan, in addition to having a somewhat impressive title, also had the estate to go with it. Ruler of Ostwick, he kept a large, opulent house. But the Iron Bull was used to extravagance. It came with the territory of working primarily out of Orlais and Nevarra. While the Ben-Hassrath back home were happy with the inside information he provided, he only really learned one thing: nobles were the same, no matter the nationality. He left his boys in the lower parts of the city, taking only Krem with him while he went to talk to Trevelyan. After all there was no reason they couldn't have a few hours of downtime while he gathered the details of their latest mission.

"I've heard quite a good deal about you and your Chargers," Trevelyan said. His blond hair was cut short, military style, a neatly trimmed goatee upon a rather severe-looking face. High cheekbones and dark blue eyes completed the stern appearance. "And I realize that this task might be a bit beneath your expertise."

"We're not that picky," Bull said. "So long as we think we can get it done, it'll get done."

"My youngest son is heading to Ferelden to attend Divine Justinia's conclave. It's not that I don't trust my house guard-"

"Escort?" Bull asked, a little dubious. Trevelyan was right. This was a little beneath them. Not that muscle for hire was out of their jurisdiction, but their jobs tended to be less escorting noble brats to religious retreats and more killing bands of roving bandits or monsters.

"As I've stated," Trevelyan said, somewhat apologetically. "Maxwell is a bit of a handful. He tends to do as he wishes, rather than what he's told. And he seems to excel in getting others to go along with him. I fear that the trip might end up being twice as long as it needs to if I send my guard with him. Likely he'd convince them they need to stop to feed every beggar on the streets of every city they pass through!" He laughed, as if this was a ridiculous notion.

Bull managed a very weak smile, while Krem raised an eyebrow, expression dubious.

"So, Mr. Bull-"

"Just Bull's fine."

"Yes." Trevelyan cleared his throat. "You have my offer. If you wish to counter, I'm willing to listen. Bring my son to Haven unharmed, and my contact there will pay the other half so you needn't return to Ostwick to collect."

Bull sat back, one hand stroking his chin. It was a simple enough mission, and the pay was way more than he would have asked for. He didn't sense anything unusual about Trevelyan. He appeared to be exactly what he was: a worried father. He glanced to Krem, who shrugged unhelpfully.

"All right," Bull said. "You got yourself a deal. We'll leave in the morning."

Trevelyan sighed in relief. "Thank you. I'll make sure Maxwell is ready to go, and I'll inform my butler to keep a look out for you tomorrow."

They shook hands and parted ways, Bull wondering what the catch was.

-

"That's him?" Krem muttered. "Perfect."

Bull snorted. He knew just what Krem meant without asking. Maxwell Trevelyan had his father's blond hair, but lacked the austerity. His round, almost baby face was framed by the wavy, haphazard locks that fell over his forehead and stopped around his cheekbones. He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners as he said his goodbyes to his mother and father, shook hands with his brothers. His cloak was slightly too large for him, the hem dragging the floor, but at least, Bull noted, it was a nondescript sort of brown color. Too many nobles wanted to make it obvious that they were an easy target and wore all sorts of shiny things and bright colors. While it was nice to have the forewarning on any normal day, the less action they saw on this babysitting errand, the better.

"You send the boys on ahead for that job in Cumberland?" Bull asked.

"Yeah, chief. Just like you asked."

Bull grunted. "You heading that way soon then?"

"Are you sure you don't want some help with this? I mean, I could _probably_ keep you from falling asleep, but I'm not sure."

"Smart ass."

Krem grinned, though it faded as Maxwell approached. "That's my cue. Good luck, Chief. We'll catch up with you in Ferelden."

Bull would have to remember that, he thought, as he watched Krem leave.

"Good morning!" Maxwell greeted him cheerfully, holding out a hand. "You must be the Iron Bull. It's good to meet you."

"Yeah," Bull said, shaking his hand, glad when it was a firm grip and not the limp finger clasp he usually received from nobles who deigned to touch him. "You ready?"

Maxwell patted his bag. "All set!"

_Great. Just what I needed._ A headache already forming, Bull gave a half-wave to Maxwell's father, and led the way out of the estate.

"I've never been outside of Ostwick," Maxwell informed him as they descended the steps to the courtyard. "All over the city, of course, though Father hates when I visit the slums. 'Use some of the tax money to clean them up,' I told him, if he didn't want me to travel to those parts of the city. He thinks I'm going to get murdered."

As far as dangerous cities went, Bull would rank Ostwick very low on the list. Having spent the night in the 'slums', he only counted two cutpurses, and both seemed off-duty, drunk as they were. There were the usual beggars and tramps, and sure a nobleman might get shaken down for his coinpurse, but it was a far cry from Minrathous, where mages fought in broad daylight in the streets. Or even Kirkwall, where you could stumble across a dead body at any time of the day depending on what alley you turned down. Maxwell was painfully sheltered, and it was obviously his father's fault.

"That's our chantry," Maxwell informed him as they passed, a note of pride in his tone. "I'm studying to become an affirmed Brother. Father says I could become chancellor one day. Though I'm not sure I want that."

"Yeah?" Bull doubted that Maxwell would've noticed if he stayed quiet. But it was just as well he wasn't expected to participate in this stream of consciousness babbling. Maybe the kid was just nervous or something.

"Too much paperwork," Maxwell clarified. "I'd rather actually be helping people than taking and counting tithes. Going out into the city, working the soup kitchens and helping at the shelters. Keeping people from having to sleep on the streets or wonder where their next meal is coming from. Do you believe in the Maker?"

The question was abrupt, and took Bull by surprise. "Uh, well." He gestured at himself, as if his appearance explained his religious beliefs. Truthfully, while he followed the Qun, a lot of it didn't make sense. But the last time he'd questioned it, he'd been pushed past his breaking point. What he was doing now worked for him. Even if it meant babysitting a nobleman's kid for a few days.

"I've never met a Qunari before. Sorry," Maxwell added. "Er. Tal-Vashoth? I know there's supposed to be a difference, but I don't really understand it. They don't teach us much about it. And all I've heard was about what happened in Kirkwall a few years ago…"

Bull grunted. He'd heard about it too. It was swept conveniently under the carpet, a new Arishok appointed. A real hardass, he heard, though he hadn't met him yet. Probably never would, and that was just fine with him. "Don't worry about it."

Maxwell smiled at him. "Apologies if I've offended. There's a lot I haven't learned yet."

"How old are you anyway?" Bull asked, the question slipping out before he could stop himself.

The smile faded a bit. "Nineteen last month."

Bull had no idea about the developmental stages of humans, at least not in depth. Maxwell seemed a lot younger than his nineteen years, and he put it down to being kept in the same city for nearly two decades.

"How old are you?" Maxwell asked curiously.

"Older than that," Bull replied, trying to keep the amusement from his tone. "Docks are up this way?"

"Yes, just down there." Maxwell pointed. "Have you been to Ferelden before?"

"Once or twice."

"How did you get a job doing this?"

The incessant questioning would be what drove him back to madness, Bull was sure of it. "I'm good at killing shit."

Maxwell went a little pale. "Oh. I… hope you don't have to kill anything on this trip."

"Why's that?"

"It should be a last resort," he said, and Bull watched him reach up, inside his cloak and touch something close to his neck. "Andraste fought hard to free the slaves because the mages wouldn't listen. But I believe that most conflicts can be resolved with words." He looked up at Bull. "Thedas would be better off without the violence."

Bull gritted his teeth. "It's a pretty dream. You hang on to that." He chose not to correct him, though, knowing that Maxwell likely would never have to witness war or destruction, and certainly not on the level that Bull had seen it.

"You think I'm naive."

Bull snorted. "I've seen too much shit to think that talking about feelings and crap will solve much. Usually it's best just to hit the problem hard enough to make it go away."

"I disagree," Maxwell said, and eyed the large sword strapped to Bull's back. He clucked his tongue. "I know that not _all_ things can be solved diplomatically. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try."

"We can't all live in your perfect world, kid."

"Don't call me that," Maxwell said quietly, dropping his hand. "I'm not a child."

_Naive_ and _sensitive,_ Bull thought. _Awesome._

"Right you are."

Maxwell sighed loudly. "And now you're just patronizing."

"Look, kid - Maxwell," Bull corrected himself. "Your dad paid me to get you from point A to point B alive. I'm a mercenary. Sword for hire. That's what I do. Chances are most bandits are gonna look at me and be smart. They'll walk away without trying anything. But a lot of bandits are stupid. That's why they're bandits and not…"

"Mercenaries?" Maxwell suggested, his tone light and teasing.

"You're kind of a smart ass."

"One of my finer qualities, or so I'm told," Maxwell said, and the grin was back.

Bull shook his head. "Point is that if we have to fight, we fight. Or rather, I fight and you try not to get hit. Think you can do that?"

"I have two older brothers who didn't subscribe to the same pacifist ideals that I did growing up," Maxwell explained. "I've got a lot of practice in trying not to get hit."

"I bet."

"Besides, you're big enough that I can just hide behind you." Maxwell's eyes flicked up and down Bull's body before he stared resolutely ahead.

"Welcome to it." Bull caught the faint blush to his cheeks, and it wasn't hard to figure out why it was there. Had it be a different type of job, Bull might've jumped on the flirting at once. But he really, really doubted that Lord Trevelyan had that kind of 'escorting' in mind when he hired him on. Not that it was a big loss anyway; he likely would've ended up breaking Maxwell in two if they did anything. Still, the kid's hair was just long enough to get a good grip on. Brief fantasy in mind, he paid the harbormaster for passage across the Waking Sea.

-

Bull hated being right. Maxwell was the type of person who didn't really shut up. In fact, the only time he was quiet other than when he was asleep was when he was praying. They stopped in one of the smaller villages along the northern coast of Ferelden, sharing a room at a small inn which obviously didn't see many visitors. Bull watched him kneel by the bed, hands clasped. His lips moved silently, head bowed. He looked at peace, and when he finished, he lifted a silver pendant that hung at his neck and kissed it.

"Sorry," Bull muttered, when Maxwell glanced over at him.

"Don't be. You know, if you're curious, you can ask about it. I don't mind talking about my faith," Maxwell offered. "Most people stop listening if I just launch into it. Preaching doesn't work. I learned that early."

"You really believe in it?"

Maxwell shrugged, and started changing for bed. "It's not for everyone," he admitted, unbuttoning his silken doublet. "But yes, I believe, as Andraste did. She heard the words of the Maker and through Him, freed the slaves."

"But there are still slaves," Bull pointed out.

"I'm not saying the Chant of Light has all the answers," Maxwell said, almost apologetically. He pulled off his linen undershirt, folded both carefully, and set them on the small vanity in the corner before moving to a basin of tepid water to wash his face. "I want to believe that the Maker exists, that He hasn't completely left us. That He still loves all His children."

Bull bit back the sarcasm. It wasn't his cup of tea, but he wasn't going to pick on someone else's beliefs. It wasn't hurting him, after all, if Maxwell wanted to believe in it. "So what do you do? Just… go around Ostwick, talking about the Maker and crap?"

Maxwell laughed, running the washcloth along his face. "Definitely not." He washed his hands, then ran his damp fingers back through his hair. "The poor of my city don't want to hear about how the Maker can help them. They want to see it in action. I tried giving my allowance away when I was younger, but that just breeds greed and contempt. Money being the root of all evil, or so the saying goes. Instead, I put my coin as well as my muscle into maintaining the work shelters and soup kitchens."

Bull raised an eyebrow, looking at Maxwell, who was quite scrawny, even for a human. He enjoyed the blush from the scrutiny, though.

"Metaphorically speaking," Maxwell muttered, grabbing a long shirt and tugging it on over his head. He turned away from Bull to remove his boots and pants, folding the latter with his other clothing.

Bull chuckled. "Suppose it's a good thing you're not a fighter," he said, as Maxwell climbed into bed. He blew out the candles. "One good hit would take you out."

"I've taken punches before," Maxwell said, somewhat defensively.

"Hey now. It's my job to make sure you don't get broken." Bull slid into the other bed, stretching a little, feet hanging out over the edge. Even in Ferelden, though everything was built a bit sturdier, he was still head and shoulders taller than most.

"My father's a little overprotective of me." Maxwell sighed. "Our Chantry had to promise him the Conclave would be safe, that there would be plenty of templars there to make sure the mages wouldn't try anything, not to mention a Fereldan kingsguard and other soldiers. He wanted to send my brother George with me, but thank the Maker that Michael - my eldest brother - stepped in and told him to let me go on my own."

"Why'd they want you anyway?" Then, realizing it might have been rude to phrase it in such a way, Bull added, "I mean if you're still in training or whatever."

"I think that was part of the reason," Maxwell said, not taking offense. He rolled over to peer at Bull through the darkness. "They've already sent a contingent from Kirkwall to represent the Free Marches, but every city is sending along their own delegates."

"Why's that?"

Maxwell scoffed. "Because. They'll mask it as wanting to help, but in reality it's to make sure that their own city's best interests are kept in mind for whatever decisions are made regarding the conflict."

Bull tucked his arms beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. "And they sent you cause…"

"I can talk circles around anyone. And in the end I usually get what I want."

It was funny how arrogant the words sounded, but the tone was rather humble. "Your father said something like that."

"I bet he did. He's the one that taught me most of what I know. Interesting fact - he's the youngest of four, all boys. He was supposed to have either joined the Chantry or gone on to be a templar, or anything but run the city."

"Fratricide?" Bull asked, but only to rile Maxwell up. He knew better.

"What?! Maker, no, not even close."

Bull laughed. The scandalous tone was pretty perfect.

"...You were joking, weren't you?"

"Yep," Bull snickered. "Go on, tell me about your dad."

Maxwell huffed a little. "He convinced his father he was the best of his brothers for the title. He waited until his brothers were out of the city, sat grandfather down, and debated with him for two hours."

"Sounds like he just bullied him into it."

"Certainly not through muscle or force," Maxwell pressed. "If you can find a person's intellectual weakness, you can work through any arguments they might have."

That, at least Bull knew, was the truth. He would have to remember to add this information in his next report. Having some intel on the Lord of Ostwick might come in handy at some point. "So he taught you?"

"He told me I would have to figure out a way to keep my brothers from beating me up, or learn to hit back. At first I just set traps around the estate for them. That started making trouble for the servants, so I learned how to shift the blame onto my brothers."

"So you lied."

Maxwell sputtered a bit. "I… well… I suppose. Of a sort. I guess."

"I get it," Bull assured him. "You do what you have to in order to survive."

"Well yes! It was either that or get hit!" Maxwell protested.

Bull laughed. "Kid, look, I'm not judging you, all right?" He could almost see the pout through the darkness of the room.

"I don't expect you would understand, being the size that you are. It's not as if anyone would pick on you."

"You like my size, huh? Not the first time you mentioned it." _Might be pushing it,_ Bull thought, and glanced over.

Maxwell's eyes were wide, and he quickly turned over. "Good night, Bull."

Bull laughed quietly. "Night, kid."

-

The next day as they were traveling, Maxwell was no less quiet than usual, but he kept firmly to the topic of the Conclave, and refused to acknowledge any crass jokes that Bull tried. He was about to give it one more go when he realized something was wrong.

"Stop."

Maxwell halted abruptly. "What-"

Bull grabbed him by the cloak and yanked him off his feet. An arrow stuck in the ground, missing Maxwell by inches. "Get down!"

He didn't stop to see if Maxwell obeyed the order, taking his sword swiftly in hand. Three bandits emerged from the sparse trees lining the path, and a fourth dropped from one of the branches.

"Stop!" Maxwell demanded of them. "You don't want to-"

"Give us your gold," the first bandit sneered.

"We don't have to fight," Maxwell continued, and Bull chanced half a glance at him. He was standing back, well out of range of the bandits, all except the archer at least.

"S'right," said the second. "You give us your gold and we let you go."

"This isn't exactly the time for diplomacy," Bull said to Maxwell, slightly impatient.

"But-"

"If you don't give us your gold," the first bandit said again, twirling his daggers, "we'll just take it from your corpses. Ain't like we never fought an oxman before."

Bull narrowed his eye, jaw set. "Like to see you try it," he goaded.

That was all it took, the bandits rushing toward him. Had it been a caravan or some random family travelling, they might not have stood a chance. The bandits were well-armed, but sloppy. Bull was used to fighting trained soldiers, magisters, people who killed just for the hell of it. The bandits could've easily overpowered someone who hadn't seen the battles, or the war that Bull had fought all his life.

He let muscle memory take over, blocking and dodging, letting two or three blows land so he could get a better hit on them. It was embarrassing how quickly the fight was over, three of the four lying at his feet, dark red pools of blood seeping into the dirt. The fourth, the archer, turned and ran. Bull started forward.

"No, don't!"

Bull stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Maxwell, eyes wide in shock and fear, looked as if he was about to vomit. He turned suddenly, took two shaking steps, bent over, and wretched. Bull, bemused, watched for a second. He remembered once Krem had vomited after a fight, but he'd been covered in spider guts and the smell was disgusting and they'd both been up late drinking the previous night, and woke with horrible hangovers. Maxwell really was just that sensitive. Bull walked over and placed a hand on his back.

"M'fine," Maxwell said, spitting, before he uncapped his water skin. He rinsed his mouth and spat again, glanced at the bodies, then looked away, catching his breath.

"First time you ever seen a dead body?" Bull guessed.

Maxwell shook his head. "I've attended a lot of funerals. Been to the pyres."

"So it's just the fighting?"

"...Bull, you decapitated one of them," Maxwell said in a quiet, small voice.

Bull didn't think it was a good idea to point out that he'd actually managed to sever the guy's midsection _before_ he took his head. Some people, he realized, just weren't built for fighting. "You gonna be all right to keep going?"

"We can't just leave them." Maxwell looked up at him, his expression pained. He reached up, touching the pendant of Andraste, thumb worrying the metal.

"Uh, well. We kind of have to? Look if makes you feel better we'll find the next town, let the guard know, and they'll take care of it."

Maxwell glanced over at the corpses, then looked away quickly. "I need a minute."

Bull shrugged and let his hand drop from Maxwell's back. Maxwell stepped away, leaning against a tree, and took several deep breaths. Then he got to one knee and bowed his head in prayer. Bull took a cloth from his pack and cleaned off his blade while Maxwell prayed to his god. Everyone, he realized, dealt with battle and death in different ways. For Maxwell's sake, he hoped this would be the last fight they saw.

-

They didn't talk much about the fight, Bull letting Maxwell talk about the funerals he'd seen, about the death of one of his distant relatives and the memorial service. Bull thought it was strange, so much pomp and ceremony for a body. But it seemed to bring Maxwell comfort, and he watched him talk to the constable in the next town about the bandits. Maxwell declined the reward offered, accepting instead a few ration parcels for the journey, and they moved on.

A light rain the next afternoon turned heavier, and with several miles to go before they would reach the next town, Bull made the decision to stop.

"It's just gonna get worse," he said, looking up at the sky. He quickly set up camp, erecting the tent and ordering Maxwell inside.

"What about you?" Maxwell asked, though he did as he was told.

"Gonna see if there's any dry wood before the real storm hits. You'll appreciate a fire, trust me. Take your wet crap off so you don't get sick. I'll be back in a few minutes." Satisfied that his orders would be followed, Bull headed out to collect firewood. When he returned, he built up a little lean-to and started a fire.

"You're really good at that," Maxwell noted, head poking out of the tent.

"It's not really anything. We're only a few miles from town, but this is gonna get worse before it gets better. Move over."

Maxwell retreated inside, and Bull ducked low to enter. Thankfully the tent was large enough to hold two grown Qunari, at least as long as they weren't standing up. Maxwell already laid out their bedrolls, his wet clothing hanging from the line of rope of that held the tent up. Bull sat and pulled his boots off, then unbuckled the harness around his chest.

"Do you travel in the wilderness often?" Maxwell asked, watching him. He'd changed into a long linen shirt and loose pants, his wet hair slicked back from his face.

"Cheaper than finding an inn every night. My boys are used to it."

"Your group?"

"Ahuh. Best bunch I ever worked with," Bull said, and meant it. He stretched, rolling his shoulders, his left side still a bit sore from the hits he took during the fight.

"I guess you don't need an entire mercenary group to guard one nobleman's son," Maxwell said, almost apologetically. "Where are they now?"

"Cumberland. Something to do with raiders I think."

"Are you all right?"

Bull, who was reaching for a dry pair of pants, looked at Maxwell. "Hm?"

"Your shoulder. You got hit. You're bruised."

Bull looked. He was, in fact, bruised a bit. "Oh that? That's nothing. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure."

Bull smirked. "What? You wanna come over here and kiss it to make it better?"

Maxwell blushed, but looked at him defiantly. "What if I do?"

Bull considered this a moment. "Nah."

"What?" The expression changed to almost hurt. "I was just…"

"You think you're ready for this but you're not." Bull watched Maxwell frown, and he definitely looked upset now.

"I know I'm… Doesn't matter anyway," Maxwell said, running out steam halfway through the sentence.

"Hey, I was just messing with you anyway. I figured you were like that from the moment I met you."

"'Like that'?" Maxwell asked, clenching the blanket atop his bedroll.

"You know. Into guys. Nothing wrong with it." Bull shrugged. He knew humans had a very different, and often strange viewpoint on sex.

"Try telling that to my father," Maxwell sighed.

"Oh fuck no," Bull said. "Not that guy. He'd never get it."

"Tell me about it."

The tone was wistful, sad. Bull severely doubted if Maxwell was even able to talk to anyone about how he felt. If his brothers were like he described them, he probably spent a lot of time trying to hide that part of himself. _Damn it… what harm could it do?_ he thought. _Other than ruining him for any future lovers._ After all, Bull was pretty damn good in bed, and he doubted Maxwell would ever find a noble who could do the things Bull was willing to do.

Carefully gauging Maxwell's body language, Bull reached over, grabbed his wrist, and pulled. Maxwell fell easily against him, making a weak noise of protest that was more shock than actual complaint. Bull took his chin in hand and tilted his face up, looking him in the eye. Maxwell's lips were parted, breath coming in short gasps, pulse racing.

"I get it."

Maxwell licked his lips, eyes flicking down to Bull's, and Bull took pity on him, kissing him roughly. Maxwell gasped, his free hand landing on Bull's thigh, and gripped as Bull's tongue plundered his mouth. Bull released his wrist and sunk his fingers into Maxwell's damp hair, getting a good grip, and pulled a little to gauge his reaction. His body arched forward, and he moaned loudly, over the sound the of the raging storm outside.

Bull smirked and pushed him back. "Gonna take charge of this. You can stop me anytime, got it?"

Maxwell, lips swollen, eyes wide, nodded quickly. "I… I've never done…"

"Yeah, I got that." Bull kissed him again to reassure him. "I do something and you don't like it, we stop. You feel uncomfortable, we stop. It hurts, we stop. Understand?"

"Yes," Maxwell whispered, obviously anxious, but wanting.

"You say 'katoh' to make it stop. Say so I know you know it."

"Katoh," Maxwell repeated. "Would you…"

"Whatever you want. It's your night."

"Kiss me again."

Bull straddled him easily, leaned down, and kissed him.

-

He _really_ hadn't meant for anything to happen between them. In fact, Bull was pretty damn sure that if Lord Trevelyan found out, the Chargers would likely never find work in the Free Marches again. Still, Maxwell didn't regret it, and Bull couldn't either. The morning was a little awkward until Bull made him talk, and for an hour there was nothing but a tumble of emotional ranting. How Maxwell's brothers made fun of him for being a 'late bloomer', how Lord Trevelyan hinted at the all the eligible noblewomen that were waiting for Maxwell if he chose not to continue on his Chantry path, and the few stolen kisses he managed to experience last year with another Chantry brother, until he left for another city.

It seemed that by the time he approached his teenage years, Maxwell had already figured out he was different, and after a slight crisis of conscience at sixteen, fasting for a full week to clear his head, Maxwell finally accepted himself. Bull thought it was all pretty fucking ridiculous, the things people put themselves through. Everything would've been a whole lot easier if humans just had Tamassrans who could take care of that. But he supposed Maxwell, like most humans, wanted more than just a quick fuck.

He didn't, at least, have to explain to Maxwell that this wasn't anything more than what it was. Maxwell, after admitting everything, all his complicated feelings, the problems he had with coming to terms with his sexuality, assured Bull he knew that they would part ways at the Conclave. And he thanked him for the night.

Bull decided not to press it. If Maxwell didn't want a repeat performance, it was fine by him. Still, the night had been pretty enjoyable overall and he wouldn't have minded another round. Maxwell could take a lot and seemed to like it rough, even if they hadn't done everything Bull wanted to. Lack of proper lubrication and their size differences stopped that idea, unfortunately. Maybe with proper preparation in a real bed… 

_Would have to soundproof the walls though,_ Bull thought. It was good they'd been in the middle of nowhere, as Maxwell was plenty loud. Not that Bull minded; it stroked his ego quite nicely when Maxwell screamed his name.

"You're quiet," Maxwell noted as they walked.

"You were talking."

"I paused."

"Yeah?"

Maxwell laughed. "It's been known to happen, Bull. Are you all right?"

Bull looked at him. "Yeah. Just thinking about the jobs I gotta do after making sure you get to Haven."

"Do you think we'll see each other again?" He paused, frowning. "Probably not, I suppose. I'll miss talking to you."

"Could always write, I guess."

"To the traveling mercenary?" Maxwell asked lightly.

"Runners usually know how to find me. Tell you what. Hang on to the letters and I'll send someone to collect them."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"That's… you don't have to do that."

"Hey. Everyone needs someone to talk to, right?"

"And you wouldn't mind?" Maxwell sounded unsure.

Bull shrugged a bit, then reached out and tugged on a strand of his hair, enjoying the blush it evoked. "Nah. Not at all."

Satisfied, Maxwell nodded. He cleared his throat. "I ah… I do a little singing. Playing in the chantry and taverns back home. People seem to like it."

"Bet your brothers loved that."

"They had a few choice things to say," Maxwell said sourly before his demeanor reverted to its usual cheerfulness. "I met quite a few bards who taught me some things. I don't have my lute, obviously-"

"You play?"

"I'm all right."

"Bet you're being modest," Bull chuckled. "Go on. Sing a song."

He expected something from the Chantry's nonsense, maybe a song about the Maker or whatever. But when Maxwell sang, Bull realized he could've been listing alchemy ingredients and he'd still listen. His voice was soft and lyrical, and very soothing. He sounded sure and confident, like he did when he spoke of his faith, and things he was well-versed in, and reminded Bull less of the kid that cowered in a fight, and more the bold young man who demanded to be kissed the night before.

"That was uh…"

"It's a work in progress, but that's my favorite."

"It was pretty good," Bull teased, grinning when Maxwell glared at him. "I'm messing with you. It was great."

"I have another one if you want. It's about a dragon hunter-"

"Yes."

"-who, what? Really?"

Bull looked at him. "You had me at 'dragon hunter.' Go."

And, as they walked on, Maxwell singing the ballad of a brave Nevarran dragon hunter, Bull found himself wishing for a few more summer storms before they reached Haven.

-

Haven, Bull realized, was just short of being a clusterfuck. Tons of people everywhere, guards trying to keep order, mercenaries hired on as extra muscle. There were groups of people dressed in Chantry garb, holding impromptu sermons next to a circle of dwarves who were shooting dice. Tents were set up at random, and the fires all seemed to be barely contained. And the tension that rose every time someone with a staff walked by was palpable.

"I guess this is it," Maxwell said, glancing around.

Bull gestured up at the gates. "Maybe we find out who's leading this thing."

"You don't have to come with me while I report in," Maxwell assured him. "The Conclave isn't for another few days, and I'm sure it'll be boring."

Bull shrugged. "Gotta meet my boys somewhere."

"Maxwell!"

Maxwell looked up as they crossed under the gate to the town. "Uncle Aidan!"

Bull hung back while they embraced and shook hands and greeted one another.

"You must be the one my brother sent to keep Maxwell safe," Aidan Trevelyan said, looking at Bull. He had the same features as his younger brother, closely cropped hair and dark blue eyes, but his face was clean-shaven. He was, Bull noted, not nearly as tall or thin as Lord Trevelyan, and in fact was a little paunchy in the middle.

"Must be," Bull said, feeling an odd surge of animosity toward this man. He tried not to think about the implications of it. This man wasn't a threat, after all, even with the dagger at his belt hidden under all those silks.

"This is for you, my good man." He withdrew a coin purse and handed it to Bull, who took it and immediately stowed it in his pack. "Thank you for getting him here in one piece. Did he give you any trouble?"

Bull glanced down at Maxwell, who looked a little embarrassed at his uncle's doting, and a bit uncomfortable with the hand on his shoulder. "Nah. Smooth trip the whole way." He didn't think it was a good idea to mention the bandits, or anything really, and Maxwell's grateful, relieved look confirmed it.

"Glad to hear it! Well, good luck in your future jobs. Maxwell, come, I want you to meet the Seeker if she's available."

"Of course, uncle, I just need a minute… want to say good-bye."

Aidan frowned, looking at Bull before scrutinizing Maxwell. "All right. Come find me in the Chantry. Don't dawdle." He looked at Bull once more before squeezing Maxwell's shoulder and heading off.

"Sorry, he's-"

"Exactly like your father?" Bull guessed.

"They still think I'm a kid."

"You are kind of scrawny."

Maxwell laughed. "So you delight in telling me." The smile faded, and Maxwell pursed his lips.

"Good luck with the thing," Bull said, gesturing up at the temple in the distance.

"Thanks. I… You'll be around a bit?"

"Probably a couple of days." He doubted they would be running into one another again, though. "I'll send that runner to pick up those letters from you. Say a month or two."

"Right. Well. Thanks, Bull." Maxwell held out his hand.

Bull shook it, and he knew he didn't miss the soft caress of Maxwell's thumb over his skin. "See you around, boss."

Maxwell smiled at the endearment. "Better than 'kid'," he whispered. "See you, Bull."

Bull watched him go, hurrying toward the chantry, and looked down at his hand a moment. "Ah, fuck," he grumbled, trying not to examine his feelings too closely. He hoped Haven had a decent tavern, and planned to get very, very drunk that night.

-

A runner found Bull a few days later to let him know to stay put, that Krem and the others would join him soon, as their job ended quicker than they anticipated. He'd found a place to put up his tent on the outside of the walls near the stables, and tried to keep himself occupied. It was a well-deserved rest. He wrote a few reports to send back home, detailing the Conclave, knowing they'd appreciate the information, even if there wasn't really any way he could get in to be privy to the talks. Eavesdropping was easy enough, and soldiers had loose tongues when they were drunk. But Bull returned each night alone to his tent, and found himself wondering what Maxwell was doing. If he was bored, or actually enjoying this crap.

"Probably enjoying it," Bull thought.

He sighed and stepped out of his tent, intent on returning to the tavern once again. With any luck, Krem and the others would be there soon and they'd get a new assignment. He'd made it only a few steps when the sky darkened several shades. A second later, an explosion the magnitude of which Bull had never heard rocked the town. People screamed, then began the running and panicking that followed every major catastrophe. Bull sprinted back to his tent to retrieve his sword, then went to find the nearest person in charge of this mess in order to help, trying not to think about the lives that were likely lost in the explosion. Or rather, one in particular.

-

"One survivor."

"That's right, some boy. The Seeker already took him to the valley."

"They say he's the one that blew up the temple!"

"What will we do without Divine Justinia?"

Bull heard the conversations, but they barely registered. He was in the tavern, spending the rest of the dead nobleman's coin on beer. The price, understandably, had gone up after the explosion. He tried not to think about Maxwell, how eager he was to help, to do some good in this world. The wild speculation as to who blew up the temple ranged from mages to templars, to the only survivor, and Bull found he didn't care. But he knew the Ben-Hassrath would, so he wrote his reports and sent them off, tipping the runner extra to get to his contact in Minrathous as quickly as possible.

Soldiers were patrolling the valley now, and Bull was officially on a break, not that they were paying him to help with the demons and other crap that was falling out of the sky. They said the person that survived the temple was going to try to close the Breach - which is what they were calling it. Bull didn't like looking at it for too long; gave him a headache. He fought for nearly two days straight after the explosion, slept for another, and was now getting drunk to avoid the realization that Maxwell was likely dead. They hadn't pulled any other survivors out, and to hear the soldiers that made the trip in and came back, it was worse than a war zone. They were still pulling bodies out of the wreckage.

Bull decided he would give himself the night, then get back to it in the morning. Too much death and destruction - and demons, he added - would drive you mad. So he tried not to think too hard on the steps that the Seeker was taking to try to close the Breach, and took himself to bed early. Less than an hour later, however, the excited shouting of the crowd roused him, and he had to see for himself what was going on.

"Well," he muttered, looking up at the sky which was calm now, "good."

Not in the mood to celebrate though, and hoping Krem and the others would show up sooner than later, he crawled back in his tent and tried to sleep.

-

"-out of Ostwick."

Bull, who'd been reading a report he "borrowed" from a soldier about how the Breach got closed, looked up from his breakfast.

"Figures some noble's the Herald of Andraste."

He determined the source of the conversation: two men sitting just a table away from him. Laborers, it looked like, from their clothing and lack of weapons.

"Not just any noble. I heard he was Lord Trevelyan's son."

"Great, a _fancy_ noble."

Bull pushed aside his plate, got to his feet and stepped over casually, not wanting to intimidate them. "Hey, heard you talking about that guy. The survivor?" The men looked up at him, and Bull shrugged a little. "I escorted a kid from Ostwick to here for this thing."

"Maxwell Trevelyan," the first man said. "Or so I heard that was his name. That the one?"

"Yeah," Bull said shortly, though he didn't want to believe it. He spent the last few days quietly grieving in his own way. "Where is he?"

"Sleeping. Takes a lot out of ya, being Andraste's herald, I guess. House near the chantry. The big one," he added.

Bull tossed a couple of coppers on the table, thanked the man for his information, and quickly left the tavern. Was it possible? What would the odds on that even be? The only survivor to walk out of that place, and the chances of it being Maxwell… Bull hadn't even held out hope. He walked up the steps and quickly dodged an elf who was leaving one of the houses in a hurry. Two guards stood on either side of the door, and they looked at him as he approached.

"I uh… wanted to see him."

The first guard laughed. "You got permission from the Seeker?"

Bull thought about lying for a moment, or maybe intimidating them to let him in. But it made sense. If people really thought that Maxwell - if it even _was_ Maxwell - was the herald of their Maker's prophet, they'd probably want to keep him safe. He realized he didn't exactly scream, 'meek' or 'trustworthy'.

"I know the kid," Bull said. "I was hired by his father to get him here safely."

"Sure," the second guarded snorted.

The door creaked open, and the world, just for one tiny moment, stood still. Bull recognized Maxwell's slightly curly hair, mussed now from days of sleeping. His eyes looked dark and haunted, and everything in his gait and expression spoke of exhaustion. He'd wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and looked terribly lost.

"Is Cassandra-" he started, then stopped, eyes falling on Bull. "Bull?"

"Hey, boss."

The blanket dropped from Maxwell's shoulders as he threw himself at Bull, hugging him tightly. The guards exchanged a look, and Bull wasn't able to keep the, 'I told you so,' expression from his face as he returned the hug.

"C'mon, let's talk," Bull said, gesturing back inside the house.

Maxwell nodded, and barely released him before looking at one of the guards. "Can you tell Cassandra I'm awake? That I'll… I'll come find her shortly? I just need a word with my friend."

The guard straightened at once, as if he was being addressed by his commanding officer. "Yes, sir."

Bull shot him a cocky smirk as Maxwell pulled him inside.

-

"I don't even know what's going on," Maxwell admitted, sitting on the bed, looking a bit lost. "I remember… strange things. Almost as if it was a dream."

Bull listened to him talk. For almost quarter of an hour he spoke about the Conclave, how he was helping to organize rooms. He remembered speaking to a templar from Kirkwall, and then nothing.

"There… I was running from something and a woman saved my life. They - I - think it was Andraste."

Bull watched him touch the pendant at this throat. "Yeah?"

"You don't have to believe it."

"They do," Bull said, gesturing toward the door.

"I believe it was her. I think she helped me. But why me and why… All those people. I… Cassandra - the Seeker - she said that no one else survived. My uncle…"

Bull held him as he cried, letting him get it all out. If the people in Haven were looking for a leader, they would need him strong. They wouldn't want to see him break down in such a way. But Bull had seen it before, how sensitive Maxwell was to death, and he would help him through this.

_And what if your next assignment puts you in Orlais? Or Nevarra?_

He made a note to write a report home about what was going on here. With any luck they would demand more information. But then, Bull realized, he would have to tell Maxwell who he really was.

"I looked for you," Maxwell said quietly. "When I woke up the first time. But Cassandra had me in chains. She thought I was guilty, too. Like everyone. And now… they're calling me a hero. Because of this thing on my hand, because I closed a hole in the Fade." He looked down at his palm, which faintly glowed with a sickly greenish color.

"Hey," Bull said, tilting his chin up, "you didn't see what it was like the first couple of days. Demons and shit everywhere."

Maxwell nodded. "The valley was… it was bad."

Bull swiped his thumb across Maxwell's cheekbone, brushing away a tear. "You'll be all right. Gonna stick by you."

Maxwell smiled and wrapped his fingers around Bull's wrist. "You probably have better things to do than stick around here."

"Actually, I… well. This might uh… piss you off a little. But I'm not really a mercenary."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "You sell your sword for coin."

"I'm Ben-Hassrath." Bull sighed at the blank look. Of course the kid had never heard of them. "Sort of a Qunari spy. I do jobs for nobles who think I'm some dumb merc and they talk about shit because they don't think I'm anyone special. Then I send that information home."

"...I see." Maxwell pulled away slowly, and Bull let him. "And my father?"

"Didn't get much. Nothing to get, I guess. I was referred to him by another one of my jobs, he liked me for it, the job was simple. And we were heading this way eventually anyway. The rest of it was just-"

"A pleasant distraction?"

"Hey, _you_ were the one who decided you didn't want another go," Bull reminded him.

Maxwell rubbed at his eyes and held back a yawn. His shoulders slumped. "I know. I'm sorry. It's a lot to process. I should've known you were… well, not what you said you were. You notice things. And you're good to talk to. Any other mercenary I guess wouldn't have bothered with someone like me."

"Met 'em all?"

Maxwell laughed lightly and shook his head. Then, he leaned against Bull. "I have to write to my father. Not about you, but about Uncle Aidan and everything. He'll be worried sick when he hears."

Bull carefully slid an arm around Maxwell's shoulders. "So you want me to stay?"

Maxwell looked up. "If you want to. I could use a friend." He paused. "Please stay," he whispered, and reached up.

Bull let Maxwell lead the kiss, wondering vaguely if this was a good idea. If he received a letter from home telling him to go elsewhere, he would need to go. He was pretty sure they would tell him to stay, though. And it was obvious Maxwell would need all the support he could get. And there was still a shit ton of stuff to do here in terms of fighting demons and closing the other holes in the Fade. Maxwell _needed_ someone like him around. He might be good at talking to people and preaching sermons about the Maker. Shit, he might even turn out to be a really good person to lead… whatever it was they were doing here. But at the end of the day, Maxwell's god could only bring him so much comfort. For the rest, he would have Bull.

"'Course I'll stay," Bull promised, feeling good when Maxwell smiled broadly at him.

He would just have to explain it to Krem and the others when they got there. With any luck, he thought, there would be an answer to all this chaos sooner than later. And after that?

Maxwell pulled him down for another kiss.

After that, Bull thought, he would figure shit out as he went along.


End file.
